


you can be a cowboy on the moon

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Codas [27]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Coda, Domestic, M/M, Post-Episode: s13e06 Tombstone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12752751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Showers are simple, Castiel has found over the years. The idea of them, anyway—plumbing is complicated, and sometimes with the infinite knowledge of the universe, he wishes he didn’t have to think about just how many pressure valves existed in the Bunker and how corroded the pipes were, and which ones specifically needed replacing.Here, though—under the steady spray with the curtain pulled at his back, Castiel can forget all that, forget everything and just revel in sensation, more than he’s felt in days.





	you can be a cowboy on the moon

Showers are simple, Castiel has found over the years. The idea of them, anyway—plumbing is complicated, and sometimes with the infinite knowledge of the universe, he wishes he didn’t have to think about just how many pressure valves existed in the Bunker and how corroded the pipes were, and which ones specifically needed replacing.

Here, though—under the steady spray with the curtain pulled at his back, Castiel can forget all that, forget everything and just revel in sensation, more than he’s felt in days. A month, apparently, Dean finally admitted to him. An entire month where Castiel had ceased to exist, save for his last waking hours that he spent bickering at a visage of himself. A month of nothing but pure, undisturbed quiet, no feeling, no emotion.

In a way, the water is a blessing. Warm to the point of uncomfortable, dripping through his hair and down his face, into every crease and fold. Wringing his hands, Castiel runs his fingertips down his throat, over his collar; for a while, all he knows is this, the warmth of the spray and his own hand, gliding across soaked skin, over the bumps of his ribs and the curves of his hips.

“You’re gonna waste all the water one day, y’know that?” Dean states, obnoxiously loud in Castiel’s solitude.

Turning, he spots Dean sneaking in around the curtain, naked and lightly scarred, with multiple bruises mottling his chest. A fall of some sort, or a direct hit; either way, Castiel frowns, both from that and his sudden appearance. “There are other stalls you could use,” Castiel says, bland, and turns back to the water, scrubbing his face.

“That’s no fun,” Dean joshes. “Besides, I wanted to check on you. Been a long day, is all.”

It has been, thinks Castiel, an abnormally long day. He’s only been on Earth again for two, maybe three days, and the night drags along equally dismally, his existence now fraught with fear and anxiety, and an ever creeping dread that maybe he was better off dead, after all. “I’m fine,” Castiel assures, not entirely a lie. “I just needed to think.”

At his back, Dean grunts in acknowledgment; briefly, he reaches over Castiel’s shoulder to the shower caddy, grabbing the shampoo bottle and squirting more than enough into his palm before replacing it. Castiel already washed everything ten minutes ago, but feeling Dean’s soap-laden hands in his hair feels like certifiable heaven, so much so, that he can barely bring himself to speak. Slowly, Dean’s fingers massage their way through to his scalp, and Castiel’s lips part ever so slightly, on the cusp of a moan.

Sure, Dean has done this before. Several times in fact, all of them involving getting some gunk out of his hair one way or another. Never before, though, has he engaged in washing Castiel’s hair just for the thrill of it, and Castiel couldn’t be more enamored at the concept if he tried. Soap cascades down his neck and face when Dean urges his head forward, allowing the water to rinse him clean.

Absolving, Castiel thinks—or acceptance, just through touch.

“There’s a lot we gotta talk about at some point,” Dean mentions, low; his hands leave Castiel’s head, but eventually replace themselves around his waist, arms holding him tight. Gently, Castiel leans into him, rests his cheek against the dirty strands of Dean’s hair, Dean’s cheek resting on his shoulder. “You being in the empty, and all that. And I gotta tell you about…” _Everything_ —Dean’s insinuation rings clear, and Castiel’s stomach twists at what it might mean.

“But you don’t want to,” Castiel suggests. He places his hands over Dean’s, linking their fingers together.

Minutely, Dean shakes his head. “Not tonight,” Dean huffs. “Got more important things to do before we have a Come to Jesus meeting.”

Castiel sighs, his grip tightening; Dean holds him back, until their knuckles blanche. “Jack can’t have gone far,” Castiel says. Against his shoulder, he feels Dean nod. “I never thought I would be a father, but I feel like… I’ve already failed.”

“Dude, you’re a great dad,” Dean states. On the tile floor, their feet brush together, Dean’s toes curling against Castiel’s heel. “I know I don’t have much of a baseline, but you’re here for the kid, that’s gotta count for something.”

“What am I supposed to do, though?” Castiel hangs his head, and faintly, he feels Dean kissing along his nape, warm and tender; his cheeks flush, unbidden. “He’s so young, and… I feel like nothing I do could ever set him at ease.”

“He’s scared,” Dean admits. He breaks from their hold long enough to grab for the shampoo again, this time lathering his own head while continuing, “He’s barely a month old and he just now learned how to move a pencil, and he can’t control his powers. He’ll learn, but you just gotta be there for him. Encourage him, let him get pissed at you, throw a few punches.”

“I would rather he not punch me,” Castiel admits; what being assaulted by a Nephilim might feel like, he has no intentions of finding out.

“Still.” Dean pauses long enough to rinse his hair, the suds coming away brown and red. “The kid needs a family, and we’re all he’s got. So we’ll go out and find him, and kill whoever decides to take a swing at him.”

“You’re protective of him,” Castiel suggests; Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation, but nods. “You’ve acted as his father while I was gone, as well.”

“No,” Dean squeaks, but his cheeks heat, glowing red under the fluorescent lights. “No, Sam’s been the real dad, I’ve just been an ass.”

“But you were there.” Castiel hands Dean the body wash and a mesh sponge. “Sam told me after we got home, how you felt about Jack.”

Dean shrugs, lathering up the sponge between both hands. “I wasn’t coping well,” he admits, somewhat sheepish. “I didn’t think you were ever coming back, so I took it out on him.” He stops, huffs. “God, I’m really turning into my old man.”

“Look at me.” With a coaxing hand, Castiel holds Dean’s chin, thumb pressed just beneath his lower lip; Dean looks, but with reluctance, hesitation in his eyes. “You are a better man than your father ever was, and you’ve proven that with Jack. You’ve grown to trust him, and if I were to die again—”

“C’mon, man, don’t say that.”

“—I’d want you to continue taking care of him.” An absolute truth, one Dean can’t ignore; if something were to happen to Castiel again, Dean and Sam are the only two he would ever trust with Jack’s life, and Dean most of all.

“Are you making me his godfather?” Dean asks, completely genuine; his cheeks glow brightly, the heat radiating off them tantalizingly real.

This isn’t the empty anymore, Castiel reminds himself—this is home, and at home, he can do whatever he pleases, have whatever he wants. Kissing Dean has always come easily, but now, they gravitate towards each other, Dean covered in soap suds and Castiel reaching out to run his fingers through the mess, coming away clean.

“It still has father in the name,” Castiel muses, earning a laugh. “You’re his father as much as I am.”

“Kid ain’t even blood,” Dean says, but not unkindly; just an observation, one Castiel knows full and well.

Jack could never be Castiel’s son either, not by blood, but family isn’t defined by genetic material or blood types, or lineage. Family is what one makes of it, and Jack is their family—and Jack needs to come home.

“I missed this,” Castiel says after a pause, idly watching Dean continue to scrub himself down, until the water runs clear from his skin.

“Yeah?” Glancing up, Dean offers a grin. “What else?”

The corners of his eyes wrinkle, and Castiel finds himself thumbing the creases, until Dean closes his eyes. “Just this,” Castiel whispers. He sneaks in another kiss, cupping Dean’s jaw in one hand, his hip in the other, and Dean returns the kiss, arms around Castiel’s neck. He bleeds warmth and comfort, and Castiel basks in it, letting it soothe him to his bones, ease the ache in his Grace.

This has always been where he’s belonged—and no one will take that away from him, never again.

**Author's Note:**

> HAVE A CODA FOR COWBOYS
> 
> Title is from the Eric Church song, "Three Year Old".
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
